Staying in Boston for the Democratic National Convention (or DNC, as I have learned to call it), I'm struck by the weight of history in this most ancient part of the United States. As luck would have it our hotel is situated in the Boston equivalent of Cockfosters, beyond the very end of the red line subway, along a scenic bicycle path, then by muddy track and down a street of mini Psycho houses to our hotel. The walk is lovely by day but less so at dead of night, which is when the events on the floor of the convention actually end.

The station at the end of the line is quaintly called Alewife, which naturally puts one in mind of matters relating to the incineration of witches, and Salem is literally just up the road. On our first day we travel into Boston and take a trolley tour of the city's many historic and often bloodthirsty landmarks. It's a fine-looking town and our driver is clearly as proud of the place as he could possibly be. We learn much of the doings of the early New England patriots - Paul Revere, Samuel Adams (not just a patriot but a great-tasting beer) and others - including the five victims of the Boston Massacre, plus some kid who accidentally got shot by a nervy redcoat way back in 1775. Sounds like Iraq all over again.

John Kerry, whose stamping ground this is, is described as a New England patriot again and again on the floor of the convention, which is taking place in a vast indoor arena called the Fleet Center. The security is tight - there are helicopters above and the occasional Humvee below, but fairly relaxed at the same time. Inside, the atmosphere is like the day of the leader's speech at our own party conferences, but three times bigger, five times more packed and 10 times louder, and it goes on like this all week.

Apart from that it's like any other party conference, with speakers of varying quality lining up to seize their moment in the limelight. Some are very boring, and some are frankly inspired. Former president Jimmy Carter delivers a stonker, ripping into George Bush without actually mentioning his name. Bill Clinton zeroes in on the party's sensitive areas and manipulates them lovingly. Barak Obama ("skinny guy, funny name") blows everyone away. All political discourse is subsumed in the red, white and blue, and this week I have seen more stars and stripes than the human eyeball can fully comprehend.

Kerry is a big, awkward-looking dude with a face that closely resembles my favourite member of the Addams Family, Lurch the butler, with body language to match, so I am predisposed to think well of him. His running mate, John Edwards, is less impressive. He is blessed with what can only be described as a shit-eating grin, which flashes on and off in a most unnatural manner. On the Wednesday night he gives a speech so dripping in down-home humility as to make Uriah Heep weep. This is just as well since they were worried his sheer charisma would somehow upstage Kerry, whose week this really is. Politics needs charismatically challenged, big, awkward people whose hearts seem to be in the right place. Let us pray that Lurch can put down Monkey Boy in November.